


up to speed

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awkward Conversations, Case Work, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Alternating, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is a rude berk, Speed Dating, They're perfect for one another, but so is john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John signs up for speed dating at Harry's suggestion, despite his reservations. Sherlock is there for a case. By the end of the event, they both find more than they were looking for.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 129
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	up to speed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Экспресс-свидания](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177587) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> This story kind of just...happened. I wasn't planning to write another work for the anniversary, but I sat down yesterday and couldn't stop. Please enjoy these two awkward idiots.

The room was crowded. People milled about with plastic cups of subpar alcohol in their hands, liquid courage for the trials and tribulations to come. His eyes narrowed, Sherlock looked out over the attendees, wondering if one of them was the suspect he was searching for.

 _Speed dating._ Sherlock snorted. What a preposterous concept, taking no more than five minutes to determine if someone was date-worthy. Sure, five minutes was more than enough for _Sherlock,_ but that was because of who he was.

Tapping his fingers against the untouched cup of red wine—if one could really call something that tasted closer to balsamic vinegar _wine_ —he sighed. He really should have let Lestrade go undercover on this one. Or Sally. Hell, even Anderson, anyone but himself. Despite Sherlock’s impressive expertise in many areas, dating wasn’t one of them. Sure, he could turn on the charm at the drop of a hat, but this was different. This was a bunch of people wearing their fakest personas, hoping to woo and amaze, flatter and impress.

Actually, it sounded like a challenge—something Sherlock could make into a game.

There was a high-pitched screeching noise as someone stepped up to the microphone set at the front of the room, and Sherlock perked up.

“Alright, singles!” The speaker was a chipper young woman, her long platinum-blonde hair perfectly straight down the open-back of her short dress. Her heels were obnoxiously high, and Sherlock snorted into his sorry excuse for an alcoholic drink. “Now, this is a little different from the traditional speed-dating set-up, as it is for people interested in both men and women,” the woman continued, smiling coquettishly. “As such, it will not be only, say, women rotating among the tables. If you have a blue card, you are a rotator, and if you have a red card, you are a sitter.”

Sherlock glanced at his own card, saw it was red, and smirked. Good. It would be easier to observe others as they approached him.

The woman clapped her hands once, her enthusiasm grating. “Alright! Red cards, take your seats and let’s begin.”

* * *

Not for the first time, John wondered why he was here. Sure, Harry had all but threatened to move him into her house if he didn’t find someone, but John had been a soldier. He should be able to stand his ground against such an attack. Yet, here he was. Their last conversation echoed through his head as he stared at the people seated at the tables. 

_“God, John, just find someone! A friend, a fuck, get a goddamn dog. You’re so sad and alone, just…I don’t know, do one of those speed dating things. Talk to another human being, or I’ll drag you out here to the suburbs, so help me.”_

John shivered at the thought of living in the suburbs, surrounded by peace, quiet, and perpetual boredom. His blood still sang with the adrenaline of military life, wounded-in-action scarring aside. The very idea made him want to vomit.

So here he was, _speed dating_. Waiting for the timer to start and wishing he had just gone for a walk in the park instead. Surely, feeding ducks was more therapeutic than this? Either way, it was too late. The buzzer rang, marking the start, and he moved toward a small brunette woman who smiled at him nervously. 

“Hello,” he said, swallowing as he took his seat and offered a hand. “John Watson.”

* * *

“Wrong.”

“E-excuse me?”

Sherlock sighed. “I said, _wrong_.” The man sitting across from him blinked. He was balding, a subtle sheen of sweat beginning to rise on his forehead. He mopped at it absently with a sleeve, making Sherlock grimace. 

“But…what do you _mean_ , I’m wrong?” The balding man’s voice wavered, rising in tone with anxiety. “You asked me what I did for a living, and I told you.” 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tablecloth. “Actually, Mister Barton, you lied to me. A software designer? With _that_ tie? Not likely.” Mister Barton sputtered, trying and failing to find his words. To Sherlock’s relief, the timer went off, and he fixed a sharp, fake grin on his face. “Oh, there’s the time. What a shame, we were just getting to know one another, too.” He waved his hands in a shooing motion. “Move along now, Mister Barton. All the best to you, and your live-in parents.” 

Mister Barton went, looking dazed and bewildered. Sherlock wiped a hand over his face with a sigh. This was proving harder than he’d imagined, his patience already stretched thin. 

A tall, dark-haired woman with sharp blue eyes sank into the chair across from him, and Sherlock adjusted his smile toward friendly. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, reaching over the table to press their fingers together. “Please, _do_ tell me all about yourself.”

* * *

“Ah, no, not exactly,” John cleared his throat, folding his shaking hands together on the table. “I _was_ a soldier. Sort of." 

“How can someone be _sort of_ a soldier?” The young man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five to John’s mid-thirties, and he looked bored. Disbelief oozed from every pore as if he couldn’t believe the frail-looking man with the cane sitting across from him could have possibly served in Her Majesty’s service. 

“Well, I was an army doctor,” John replied, fingers flexing nervously. “So, it’s a bit different.”

“Oh.” The young man frowned. “So you _weren’t_ a soldier, then? Like, you never shot anyone?” 

“Well, I mean…I had bad days,” John offered helplessly. 

He received a sigh in response. “Right.” 

Silence fell between them, and John began to fidget. To his immense relief, the buzzer sounded, and he leapt up from his chair. “Nice to meet you!” he said, too loud and too fast, hurrying to escape and nearly forgetting his cane.

Following the clock-work shuffle, he dropped into his chair at the next table with a sigh. John paused to breathe in a long, quiet breath, grateful for the half a minute between sitting and having to start the next conversation. Also, he was never, _ever_ going to sign up for something like this again. He’d rather be shot. As someone who _had_ been shot, that meant something. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, lifting his head with a strained smile. “Just needed to catch my breath—” Said breath fled as he found himself looking at the man seated across from him. The overhead lights, soft and pale yellow, painted streaks of chocolate and amber through the man’s thick, curly hair, even as it leant a gentle illumination to his otherwise severe, sharp facial features. 

John’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed weakly.

_Holy shit._

* * *

Watching the tall, dark-haired woman leave, Sherlock rubbed at his temples. His fingertips massaged the skin, failing to release the tension humming through his head. This was all so tedious, so infuriatingly _boring_ , despite the potential for challenge. Everyone was either so disgustingly fake, yet still failing to hide their secrets, or _painfully_ obvious, making him want to scream.

Still rubbing his temples, he sensed rather than saw the next participant sink into the seat across the table. They spoke—a man’s voice, a pleasant tenor that Sherlock barely heard—and he hummed in response, not paying attention to their words. He let his hands drop to his lap, eyes roving over the room. He was too frustrated to really focus on the new person, and he responded absently to their questions.

“Stockbroker,” he said distractedly, offering up the persona he had chosen for the case. “Trading stocks, all that jazz.” His eyes landed on a bulky-looking man, four tables over, and narrowed. _Bingo._ “Four years,” he offered, attention focused on the target.

“That sounds…interesting,” the man across from him said, his words filtering through Sherlock’s redirected attention. “I guess.” The last was mumbled in a questionable tone, and Sherlock frowned, still watching the large man.

“What do you do, then?” he asked, not really interested in the answer.

“Well, nothing at present…” came the reluctant reply. Sherlock suppressed a snort.

“So you’re unemployed?” 

There was a pause. Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly to the other participant. He was shorter than Sherlock, his cropped, dark blonde hair shot through with grey despite the mid-30s age range, his clothes outdated, the button-up shirt having seen better days. The man stared at the table, the colour of his eyes momentarily hidden by his pale lashes. There was something about his hands, an incomplete observation nagging in the back of Sherlock’s mind. An intermittent tremour? He couldn’t quite put his finger on why that meant something.

“Well, yeah, but…not exactly,” he said, and Sherlock turned his attention back to the bulky man seated a few tables away. 

“What does that mean?” he asked, not really listening for the reply. It filtered through his distraction, regardless.

“I mean, I’m looking.” The man sounded anxious, the tone slipping toward defeated resignation. “Hard to find work for a war invalid.” 

Sherlock grunted his response. Fingers tapping on the table, he nodded. “Sure, I bet. Makes sense.” His eyes narrowed as his target shot a nervous glance around the room. “Must be hard.”

The man across from him sighed. “Yeah...” His voice faded away before Sherlock’s focus sharpened, the participant’s words finally filtering through.

_Hard to find work for a war invalid._

Head jerking around, Sherlock stared at the stranger. “War invalid?” he repeated. 

The man looked up from where he was frowning at a fixed point on the table, his shoulders rounded, a heavy sense of dejection hanging over him. “Pardon?” His eyes were a deep, startling blue and vibrantly alive, a sharp contrast to his faded, rumpled appearance. Sherlock blinked.

“I said, you’re a war invalid?”

“Yeah,” the man said slowly, tilting his head to the side. “Didn’t think you were listening.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged, caught off guard by the man’s sharp tone. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat with a rough cough. “I—” 

The buzzer sounded, signalling the end of their time. Before Sherlock could say anything more, the other man was standing, his movements jerky. He grabbed a cane off the back of the chair, leaning heavily on the support. 

“I’d say nice to meet you, but,” the man shrugged, a sour, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. It looked like the face a dog might make before it was sick. “But I don’t even know your name, so. Ta.” 

“I—” Sherlock tried again, but the man was moving on. Despite the cane, he walked stiffly, no hint of a limp in his step. Sherlock frowned, opened his mouth to call after him, and was interrupted as someone new dropped into the seat across from him.

* * *

John tried to focus on the friendly, big-eyed woman across from him. He did his best to smile in the right places, nod his head when he should. Inside, it felt like he was crumbling. 

His initial reservations and nerves had been right. Instead of bolstering him, instead of imbuing him with a sense of connection, this speed dating thing was turning out to be an absolute disaster. He felt a thousand times worse now than he did sitting in his pathetic, empty bedsit, and that was saying something. 

The woman made a vaguely amusing joke, and John’s laugh was delayed. 

He would leave, but he had signed a contract and paid a deposit that he couldn’t really afford to lose, not jobless and barely struggling along on his pension as he was. There was only a half-hour left, plus the mandatory mixer afterward. John could stay for a drink, make a show of approaching some people, then duck out early and flee back to his drab, empty life.

Pulling in a soft, unsteady breath, he forced a smile and tried to follow the conversation.

* * *

His focus was shattered. Sherlock tried to regain it, watching the bulky man as he greeted participants with a predatory smile. That was his target, he was almost sure of it.

But, instead of remaining locked on the suspect with all his deductive power, he repeatedly found himself distracted. His eyes kept darting around the room, checking for and identifying the veteran’s position as he moved from table to table. Sherlock noted how the limp crept its way back into the man’s step, worsening with each new meeting, each new conversation. He didn’t seem to be having much success, and Sherlock felt the dull, unfamiliar ache of guilt settle below his ribcage. 

The woman sitting in front of him was scowling, obviously annoyed at failing to hold his attention. When the buzzer sounded, she pushed her chair back with a _hmph_ and a sharp screech of wood against the floor, stalking away. To Sherlock’s relief, the host approached the microphone again, swaying precariously on her too-tall shoes.

“And that’s a wrap, folks!” she trilled, shooting the gathered crowd a sparkling, fake smile. “Hopefully, some of you managed to find someone you connected with, and for those of you who didn’t, well…” her eyes glittered. “We look forward to seeing you here next weekend!” 

A smattering of groans and half-hearted laughs met her joke, and she winked. 

“I know, I know. Bad joke, right? Whether you’re celebrating a new love match or looking to drown your sorrows, please join us for the mandatory mixer in the room next door. There will be alcohol!” she added, and someone whistled enthusiastically. 

Already rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned and searched the room. His target was near the back, chatting with a man half his size—both in height and girth—who looked nervous. Confident the suspect didn’t seem to be going anywhere for the moment, he looked around for the veteran. Sherlock didn’t see him at first, then caught sight of him just as the ex-military man disappeared out the doors leading into the hallway. He considered following, but the suspect was still here, and the veteran was already out of sight.

_Damn._

* * *

As soon as he could, John hurried toward the doors with the host’s enthusiastic voice still fading from the speakers. He felt tense, his skin tight and hot, and he needed to escape. 

He limped down the hall, past a few people talking in small groups. John flashed them a pained smile as he made his way toward the bathrooms. Inside, he planted his hands on the counter and stared at his reflection. It stared back, pale-faced and strained. John blinked slowly, wondering when he had become the person in front of him. Such a sad, worn-out looking person, a shadow of his former self. 

Shaking his head, banishing the self-pity, he splashed water on his face with unsteady hands, dabbing at his damp skin with a sheet of paper towel. Pausing to adjust his collar, faded and soft from multiple trips through the wash, John exited the bathroom with his hand clenched in a death grip around the cane. 

One hour. He would stay for an hour, then he would leave and pretend this had never happened. Lesson learned; he was better off stuck in his bedsit, depressing, dark space that it was. Harry could just deal with it, just as John would.

* * *

Sherlock was beginning to think the veteran had left, mandatory mixer or no. Then the faded-looking man suddenly reappeared, limping through the doors with an air of tension about him. His back was stiff, his shoulders held up toward his shoulders in a defensive posture. Looking at him, Sherlock felt an inexplicable need to change that, all of it. He remembered the man’s vibrant blue eyes. It was a travesty, someone with eyes like that, looking so…washed out. 

His gaze darted to where his target was seated at a small, round table with two other participants. Sherlock felt torn, pulled between the case and this strange need to _fix_. It wasn’t a familiar feeling, but it tugged at him nonetheless. 

Squinting, turning back to watch the veteran limp his way toward the pathetic refreshments table, Sherlock thought maybe he could do both.

* * *

The wine was awful. Taking a sip, John pulled a face. He forced himself to swallow and resolved not to drink more than he had to.

With his plan for liquid courage foiled, John leaned his back against the wall and looked over the room. From his position next to a large potted fern, he felt safe, unnoticed, able to observe at a distance without worrying someone might engage with him. As decided earlier, he would stay for an hour, make sure he thanked the host, and then slip out and catch the tube back to his bedsit.

He tried not to think about the disappointing space he would be returning to, and accidentally took a sip of the drink in his hand. John grimaced. 

“It’s abhorrent, isn’t it?” 

The voice spoke from just behind him, and John startled violently. Wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the plastic cup, he scowled over his shoulder at the speaker. “Excuse me?” 

“The wine,” came the response, the owner of the voice stepping closer. “It’s truly awful.” John squinted, vaguely recognizing the stranger as one of the people he had sat with. There had been many, and the faces had begun to blend into a mix of details in his mind. Gradually, he realized this was the man who had ignored him so rudely. Mister-Cheekbones-and-Disinterest, as John had taken to thinking of him during their speed-date. 

“Oh,” he replied, brows sinking down into a frown. “It’s you.” 

The man winced. “Right. Um…sorry?” He licked his lips, looking uncertain before an alarmingly strange smile spread over his face. The sight of it made John’s eyes widen.

“What the hell—are you okay?”

The smile faded, the man’s full lips pushing into a frustrated pout. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said instead of answering, sticking out a hand. 

John took it reluctantly, wondering what was happening. “John Watson.” He dropped his hand back to his side as soon as it was released. “What, you talk now?”

Sherlock scowled and didn’t bother to validate the comment with a reply. Instead, he looked John over with a laser-sharp stare. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Excuse me?” John repeated, taken aback. 

Sherlock made a low huffing noise. “You said war invalid. So, which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John stared at the sour-tasting wine in his hand. “Afghanistan,” he muttered, a little frown creasing his forehead. “What’s it matter to you?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “You said you were having a hard time finding work.” His eyes roved over John’s face, down his body to linger on the cane clutched in one hand before rising again. “Why?”

His face reddening, John shifted his weight onto his right leg. “Bit of a personal question, don’t you think?” Feeling combative, he pursed his lips together and drew himself up to his full height. “You weren’t particularly interested in what I had to say earlier, so what’s changed?”

“That’s because I wasn’t paying attention,” Sherlock replied, holding up a hand to silence John’s irate response. “And for that, I apologize.” Eyes narrowing, he hesitated and leaned closer, his voice softening to a whisper. “I’m not actually here to meet anyone, it’s just a cover.” He leaned back, and John’s brows shot up. 

“A cover? A cover for what?” 

Sherlock smirked. “You first.” At John’s confused expression, he sighed, “Why can’t you find work?”

A shadow passed over John’s face, his left hand flexing restlessly against his leg. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement, but he didn’t interrupt, waiting patiently. Finally, John huffed, “Because, surprisingly, no one seems to want to hire a doctor who can’t walk without a bloody cane, and has an intermittent tremour in one hand.” His voice was bitter. “Shocking, I know,” he added sarcastically before looking away, prepared for judgement.

Instead, Sherlock sucked in a startled breath, drawing John’s eyes back to him. The man’s face had brightened, lighting up like the rising sun, his eyes glittering with a strange interest.

“An army doctor,” he sighed out, his voice wondering, filled with marvel. “You’re an _army doctor.”_

“Er, yeah,” John replied, bemused. “Well, _was_. I’m not anymore. Obviously.”

Sherlock’s eyes pinned him in place, his stare taking on a calculating edge. “Wounded in action?” he guessed, gaze darting back to the cane gripped tightly in John’s hand. 

“They don’t tend to invalid perfectly healthy people,” John bit out, still feeling adversarial. To his surprise and confusion, Sherlock grinned and looked pleased, like John had done something wonderful by being crotchety. Clearing his throat, he added, “Okay, your turn now. What did you mean about this being a cover?”

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of him and rocked back on his heels. He seemed to vibrate with energy, his face alight with a barely contained excitement. Looking at him, John was reminded of his initial impression of the man as handsome before he had dismissed John entirely. 

“I’m not a stockbroker,” Sherlock admitted, and John snorted.

“Not shocked, but go on.”

Sherlock cocked a brow. “I’m actually a consulting detective.”

“A...what? Like a P.I.?” John frowned.

“No. Ugh, _no_ ,” Sherlock scoffed, sounding offended. “A consulting detective. Only one in the world.” He looked proud, tilting his chin up. “I invented the job.”

“Oh,” said John, nodding sagely. “So it’s a made-up job. Why didn’t I think of that?” He tilted his head, amused. “How are the benefits? Does it include dental?”

Sherlock’s expression shifted into a petulant scowl. “Rude.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” John shot back. Despite himself, he felt a grin creeping over his lips, impossible to contain. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed before he mirrored the gesture. 

“It’s _not_ made-up,” he said imperiously as if trying to save face. “It’s quite real. And often dangerous.” His teeth sank against his bottom lip, and he looked John over slowly. “Not sure if you’d be interested, but I might need a hand with this case.”

John sucked in a breath, wondering if this man—and his apparently made-up job—was real. A voice at the back of his head told him to turn around and leave, to flee this obvious insanity. But something else, something deeper and instinctive, told him to stay. To take a chance. 

Licking his lips, he nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

Sherlock’s lips curled in a wide grin. “Fantastic.”

* * *

John was magnificent. Despite his earlier comments and reservations, he fell into Sherlock’s work with a confidence that Sherlock found almost hypnotizing. He was a force of nature, brow furrowed as he listened intently to Sherlock’s outline of the case, his description of the suspect. 

When they confronted the bulky man Sherlock had spotted earlier, the suspect fled. John sprinted after him as he tried to escape, his short but powerful legs eating up the distance until he had the man pinned up against a wall. Even with the eyes of everyone in the room upon them, John didn’t shy away or flinch when the suspect snarled in his face. 

Sherlock felt a strange sense of pride and awe at the display. Almost...possessive. Watching John bring the man to his knees lit a fire in his chest and stole away his breath. 

Oh, Sherlock would _definitely_ be keeping him. There was no doubt about that. 

After a quick phone call, Lestrade and his crew descended on the venue, the mixer cut short by Donovan shouting for people to clear the room. Sherlock hovered near the exit with John at his side, watching the arrest proceed.

The veteran looked pleased, hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock found himself shooting glances at him, taking in the way John stood tall, his head cocked upward with quiet, effortless confidence. Gone was the hesitant, faded appearance, his blue eyes burning with vitality and adrenaline, his hands perfectly still. He looked like a new man. John had shed the skin of the person he had limped into the room as and picked up the mantle of another. 

“So,” Sherlock began slowly, pausing to clear his throat. John glanced his way, tilting his head in silent query. Emboldened, Sherlock smiled. “About that awful wine.”

One of John’s brows drifted upward. “What about it?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I might know a place with a much better selection. It also might happen to be nearby.” He hesitated, squinting down at John’s keen expression. “Italian. Good food, too, if you’re amenable.”

His mouth lifting at the corners in a slow, pleased grin, John’s cheeks flushed a light pink. “I might be,” he said, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face. 

Inclining his head, Sherlock gestured toward the doors. “Splendid. Shall we?”

After only a moment of uncertainty, John nodded, his expression cautiously expectant. “Lead the way.” 

Sherlock did so, guiding John out the exit and into the evening. Trying to conceal his wondering smile, he wondered how long it would take John to notice he had left his cane behind, discarded next to the potted fern.   
  


_fin._


End file.
